


doubt.

by afogocado



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Male Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Smut, Virgin!Obi-Wan, body image anxiety, pillow humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afogocado/pseuds/afogocado
Summary: in-universe/set between aotc & rots. obi-wan is overwhelmed by swirling thoughts of you--of doubt, of affection--and by a keen desire to love on his own body. he wonders how you would allow yourselves to adore one another’s bodies.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 161





	doubt.

**Author's Note:**

> rating: 18+; explicit; mature; nsfw  
> warnings: male masturbation; fantasizing about reader (it is indicated the feelings are reciprocated); (mutual) pining; pillow humping; obi-wan is a virgin; obi-wan has some body image anxiety because he is smol and has a soft tum. but because he is the love of my life, gratuitous and loving descriptions of his body are included here. smol soft obi rights!!

—

_(To not be consumed with doubt, one must consume—and then purge—it first.)_

He could say he couldn’t remember the last time you visited, and perhaps that’s what he _should_ say. If anyone were to ask. Not that he’d ever be asked. But maybe others could tell it about him. That he remembered everything about you. But to say he didn’t would be a lie. Of course he remembers. He remembers everything about you: often, it keeps him together when he’s so far from home and he’s certain _this_ is the time he won’t make it back. There is something about you in these brief interludes during the times that he _is_ home at the temple: pockets of time measured in glances that fill his haunted heart. And there’s something about you…some twinge of information he keeps flowing within him—somewhere—and at all times.

Here, the things he knows and likes to pretend are just for him:

  * You visit the Jedi Temple on the third Friday of every month;
  * You bring deliveries from the botanist across town, where you are the horticulturalist’s apprentice;
  * You must be escorted to the greenhouses out back: sometimes with security, sometimes with a Jedi, but you always ask for him;
  * Your absence makes him yearn, but he never knows this until he sees you again. 



**_You_ ** _, there: eyes_ **_curious-bright_ ** _,_

**_like_ ** _the archive’s glow;_

_You, there: patchy with dirt,_

_and—_

**_Him_ ** _, there: close,_ **_with an absurd ache_ **

_to thumb this blemish from your cheek._

And—later—you, there: when he’s alone and his long-lashed eyes flutter shut, his lids heavy from the fresher’s steam. And palm pressing against soft-taut belly, working to still the flutterbys, but only disturbing their waking slumber until they’re worrying up from his nethers and into his nervous chest.

A frown between his brows, fingers spreading over his stomach’s soft.

Would you like this? About him?

Would your fingers dance across his body here?

Touch-loving his path of hairs with your tender-ghosting fingertips?

Would they follow an adoring trail the entire way up to his aching heart?

Would you adore him here?

A soft-spot start to an

o d y s s e y

leading you into his arms,

your hungry hands rewarded

with his strong back

with his freckled shoulders

before locking your arms around him

—here—

and he secures your front with his front

— _here_.

Or, would you be disappointed with his soft parts, with his smallness? Embarrassed that Jedi Knight Master Kenobi was much smaller and less hard-hearty than his hotheaded padawan? Not as gregarious and giant as his reputation many thought of him as. How many times had he been told in negotiations that he was much smaller than they expected? What did you think every time you greeted him? (“Hello, General Kenobi. It’s so wonderful to see you again,” and always just a little breathless). Sometimes, unable to even meet his gaze. Were you always humored by his appearance? Did you look away so that he wouldn’t have to suffer through your struggles to swallow your smirks?

He _did_ know how a lot of women felt about men.

He _heard it_ when he wandered the city’s streets on his leave times.

Overhearing conversations between women who would say things like:

_‘If a man wasn’t over six foot, I want nothing to do with him.’_ —and—

 _‘What do you do with a man under six feet tall?’_ —and—

 _‘I’d be embarrassed if my man was taller than me.’_ — **a n d** —

(oh, dear). 

Not that Obi-Wan wanted to be a man that people wanted to have something to do with **in- _that_ -way.** He couldn’t. But, as a human, it was difficult to know that for some people, he was automatically out of the running because he didn’t meet a certain requirement that he had no control over.

i. And Obi-Wan, thinking of your bodies sharing the same spaces:

Most times that he escorted you to the greenhouses, you would avert your gaze when he would look down at you.

“It’s always a great pleasure to see you, milady.” He’d say anything to get you to look at him.

“I appreciate your courtesy, General Kenobi, but I am no lady. Just a dirty, glorified gardener. I don’t know how you ever allow me into this gorgeous space.”

“You are a woman I greatly respect; I view you as a lady. I can stop, if you like.”

“You can call me anything you like, Master Jedi. You are always welcome to do with me as you wish.”

And yet. He was slowly learning that you wished most, if not all, of your visits to include Obi-Wan escorting you. And he was slowly learning this was always at your requests:

just to see his face,

just to see him alive,

just to see—

and becoming less unbeknownst to him how these visits ended in your very obvious disappointment at him all but fleeing from you once he saw you to your destination.

ii. And Obi-Wan, thinking of your bodies sharing the same spaces:

“I’ve heard many things about you, Master Jedi,” you tell him, burying the sapling in the small planter when Obi-Wan was brave to stick by you after escorting you, watching you work with earnest. “Intriguing, great things.” You say to him, but don’t elaborate any further, even though you are able to look at him just a bit longer.

iii. And Obi-Wan, thinking of your bodies sharing the same spaces:

Later, in the fresher: Obi-Wan wondering, _WHAT_ _Things_ _?_

What were the things you knew about him?

What had people told you?

What had you overheard?

And when he takes his cock in his hand—impossibly hard and impossibly swollen—his face flushes with a heated, desirous embarrassment. And he must remember: _There is no emotion, there is peace._ Yes, how could he be so stupid to let his body—that he’s spent all of his life disciplining—betray him in such a fevered and idiotic manner? And he must remember: _There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity_. But what of the serenity that follows him spilling into his palm, allowing the near-searing water to wash it down the drain along with his shame?

_(To not be consumed with doubt, one must consume—and then purge—it first.)_

Obi-Wan must remind himself of his great-grandmaster’s teachings: “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.”

Obi-Wan would not suffer you.

He knows he’s much stronger than that.

(But stars, if he didn’t love suffering in these moments where his skin feels so tight that he could just explode into galaxy dust).

Obi-Wan would not suffer you.

But he allows himself to remember you. And your visits.

_You_ : with your hands dusted in dirt, bare fingers working with a diligence he wishes he could instill in his sometimes-impudent padawan.

 _You_ : with your comments, always something like,

‘you can do **_w h a t e v e r_** you wish with me’

as you transport a cluster of budding flowers into a bedding of dirt.

And Obi-Wan—not suffering you—wanting to be brave enough to make you suffer, “As you may know, most Jedi do not have much experience with gardening, but we are quick learners. And I have been quite curious about the flower you bring each month. I wonder about it often, actually. And how the pretty petals may soften under my steady touch.” And, to demonstrate, he’d taken one of the budding silken petals between his thumb and forefinger, caressing it gently and looking down at you as his auburn hair spills across his forehead, threatening to fall into his golden-flecked azure eyes. “I wonder whether it needs much watering at all, or if it would be ready for me.”

(oh, dear. that was it, wasn’t it darling? that’s what did it for you, wasn’t it angel? what you’ll think about while you fuck yourself silly tonight? because that’s what i’ll—). “Pardon me, milady,” and that sudden fleeing: to his chamber, to his fresher. 

And after the fresher, after he’s spilled his seeds of doubt down the drain, he’s still not satisfied. His suffering is not sated. His mind—and cock—still elated with thoughts of you, as he pads over to his bed, half-hard, fully-aching, when he climbs onto his freshly laundered mattress, and resting on his knees as though meditating.

It’s like this, a list of questions that never leave him alone in these moments following your sudden arrival, and his quick departure from you:

**Number One:** Would he let you mount him, and take him at your own pace and in your own time as you held yourself steady over his hips and palms balancing flat over the expanse of his chest, and tugging at the golden red hairs that keep his heart covered warm? “Yes,” he says with a sigh, closing his eyes and splaying his fingers out across the fine thatch of burning auburn desire there, and whining in the way he likes to hear himself when he tugs just a little too hard. And his hand—down and down and down—nails arousing goosebumps and cock springing hard, until his fingers find the searing scarlet hairs nestled over it and smoothing until he can feel the soft skin they protect.

**Number Two:** Would you let him use his hands to trace love lines up the insides of your thighs with fingertips only so-well acquainted with his hilt (lightsaber, and other)? “Yes,” he says, fingertips pressing lines into his sheets until they dent inwards—and gliding up and up and up—until he can clutch a bunch near the bed’s head, while his swollen cockhead is left leaking and weeping into its soft and welcome pillow pocket. “Please, angel.” He holds the pillow flat against his silent mattress, rocking his hips into its firm softness. His dripping cockhead leaks a trail of precome into the pillow case and he watches it with a lazy, glazed gaze, imagining that its the inside of your thigh he’s marking with this erratic, impassioned doodling.

**Number Three:** Have you heard how his mouth and tongue work famously well together? Would you let him work it differently? Only for you? “Would you, darling?” He asks the empty room, fingers pressing harder still into his bedding. “Tell me.” Did you know they called him the Negotiator? Would you let him—once his fingers have melted your thighs apart for him—flip you to your back, grab your hips, and bring your aching slit to his mouth? Would you let him coax your arousal out of your folds and onto his tongue? Would you come on _his_ lips as his hand roamed flat up your middle, between your breasts, and pressing his fingers past _your_ parted lips?

**Number Four:** Would you take his cock into your mouth? Even though that’s something he’s always heard nice girls don’t do? He relinquishes his pinned hold on his pillow to push his long hair from his face, tucking strands behind his ears, hips still fucking into its soft indentations that remember the soft press of his cock’s head and throbbing shaft so well. And one of his hands, falling back onto the pillow to hold it steady to fuck into it with more force. His other hand, at his chest, tugging at the hairs, before sliding up his throat and pressing in just a bit. In the way that he likes that makes him cry out in the way he wants so desperately for you to hear. “Would you get your Jedi’s cock nice and wet and ready in your mouth, darling?” And the pillow—no longer enough—now a resting place for his fist he’s fucking into, fingers wrapped around his thick and heavy length.

**Number Five:** Would you let Master Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi fuck you into his mattress, your hips tilting up and up for him to have better access to rail himself into you with an unrelenting pace, until he must ease your ankles over his shoulders so he can fold you into his bedding, and— “ _Fuck_ ,” he whimpers, never able to make it past this part in his frantic desire, always spilling into his hand and pillow case over this imagery of having you so fully, so tightly.

**

Obi-Wan would not suffer you.

**

And, the most recent time you’ve met. And he—without shame after having done what he did in his quarters just this morning. _(To not be consumed with doubt, one must consume—and then purge—it first. This is how we live without shame.)_

“Master Jedi.”

“Hello, there.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the last time we met.”

“Oh?”

“I’m always thinking about what you say…My flower? I’ve been the only one to have ever…cared for it. And I’ve wondered—since I met you—what it must be like if somebody else were to help me water it.”

“Do you think a Jedi the most appropriate?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“My hope is that you, specifically, are the most appropriate.”

(oh, dear). 

—


End file.
